HTLJ: The Curse of the Dung Beetle
by Arianna18
Summary: Hercules and Iolaus travel to Egypt to take up a chariot race challenge.


Note: I'd like to thank Martha Wells Wilson for allowing me a brief but crucial reference to one of her stories, "Darkness Visible Revisited"!

* * *

The heroes loped into the ceremonial hall of the palace at Corinth, a tad sweaty and trying to catch their breath, straightening as they stumbled to a halt, amazed by the dazzling pomp and ceremony that was occasioned by the presence of all the significant rulers of the myriad Greek city states.

"What the…?" muttered Iolaus, wiping sweat from his eyes and shaking his head a little, as if wondering if he was seeing things. They had been running flat out for two days through the heavy and unforgiving heat of summer, ever since having received Iphicles' urgent summons to return immediately to Corinth. The note had only said they were needed to stop a war. But, the only guys likely to start a war were already here…and nobody was fighting, at least not yet.

"I have no idea," Hercules murmured back, frowning as he scanned the room, noting the unusual and unexpected presence of a haughty Egyptian emissary, standing apart from the rulers, looking impatient, and another man, clearly a servant and from his look also Egyptian, waving palms fronds, large natural fans, to cool his master. The Grecian Kings and their attendants muttered amongst themselves, looking frustrated and not a little disgusted. Sparta, as was usual, looked fit to march into battle, while Argos seemed to be urging caution and patience. Thebes and Athens stood to one side, chewing on their lips and Mycenae looked as arrogant as ever. When Corinth, in the person of Iphicles, spotted his brother and his partner across the crowded hall, he didn't bother waving them forward. In his anxiety to speak with them, he threaded his own way through the throng, and when he reached them, he took them each by an arm to lead them out of the hall.

"Thank the gods you've finally arrived," he breathed, casting a quick look over his shoulder as they turned down the corridor leading to his private salon.

"What's going on here?" Hercules asked, frowning thoughtfully at his brother's evident air of relief mingled with urgency.

Leading them into the quiet, comfortable chamber, the King waved them toward chairs while he himself paced the floor. "Crazy Egyptians," he muttered, shaking his head. "You won't believe this." Turning to face them, he explained, "The current Pharaoh, Lord of the Two Lands, Incarnate of the Gods, has had a dream about triumphing over all the lands of the Mediterranean Sea, riding his chariot in victory over Greece."

"'Dream' as in sleep or 'dream' as in wish?" Iolaus asked.

"Dream as in sleep," Iphicles replied briskly, impatient at being interrupted as he continued bringing them up to date as quickly as possible, "But, his principal advisor has cautioned him that it might only be a portent, not a promise. The advisor seems to have a good deal more sense than the Pharaoh…too much inbreeding in that family. Why is it gods, or people who think they're gods, think they can only marry siblings?" Iphicles threw up his hands, distracted by that thought as he again began to pace in agitation.

Iolaus and Hercules exchanged bemused glances and shrugged their shoulders. So far, there was no clue as to why they'd been summoned so imperiously. Clearing his throat to regain his brother's distracted attention, Hercules queried, "And, we're here because…?"

"Oh yeah, right," Iphicles sighed, looking back at them. "Well, the advisor convinced the Pharaoh that this dream might only be an omen, one he should take literally…that is, triumph over Greece in a chariot race. And, then, only then, if he's the victor, will it be a sign that he'll be equally as triumphant in a war with us. The man's a fool. Egypt doesn't have the strength of its glory over a thousand years ago. The Great Pharaohs are all dead and eternally asleep in their pyramids or hidden tombs and the current regime couldn't conquer Libya, let alone all the rest of us. The advisor is just buying time for the idiot to have another dream, but in the meantime has sent the royal emissary to challenge Greece to test our greatest charioteer against their Pharaoh, for our honour and glory."

Hercules frowned, getting the drift of where this was going and not liking it. But, his protest was over-ridden by Iolaus' intrigued question, "Where's the race to be held?"

Iphicles relaxed, grateful to see that Iolaus had quickly come to the point, as if his acceptance of the challenge was too obvious to bother wasting words with. "In Giza, in the desert, near the greatest pyramid of them all. Maybe they think their ancient glories will intimidate you, I don't know. Anyway, they want to hold the race before this moon wanes, which is why I had to get you here so fast. There's less than a week left and if we fail to meet the challenge, they'll assume we're afraid and declare war. We'd beat them, no question of that…but not before too many men had died."

"Wait a minute," Hercules held up a hand. "Just wait a minute. What happens if Iolaus loses? And, even if he wins…aren't they likely to take it badly?"

"We can't afford to lose, Hercules, that's the point," Iphicles responded, irritated. "That's why we all decided we needed Iolaus…I know he hasn't raced for years, but he's famous, the best there ever was. We have to win or there will be a war. Relax, this crazy Pharaoh won't stand a chance against him. And, when Iolaus wins, they'll probably make him a god or something…they'll have to. No ordinary mortal could defeat a 'god incarnate', so they'll more than likely proclaim Iolaus to be an immortal, too, to save face."

"Cool," reflected Iolaus, grinning at that idea.

Hercules threw him an irritated look, not happy about the situation, but Iphicles wasn't prepared to get caught up in further protests or delays. "Come on," he said, heading toward the door, "they're waiting for us…and I have a ship ready to sail in the harbour."

Iolaus bounced up to follow the King out of the room, leaving Hercules with little choice but to go along as well. He sighed heavily…he had a bad feeling about this. 'A chariot race!' he thought in exasperation. 'Why does it have to be a chariot race!'

Back in the ceremonial hall, Iphicles made a great show of introducing Iolaus as Greece's champion to the arrogant emissary, while the other rulers demonstrated their respect and support for their selected representative with a loud hurrah! Unimpressed, the Egyptian cocked a brow and scratched one cheek as he regarded the scruffy little man, skepticism bordering on contempt in his eyes. This was the champion of all Greece? Rolling his eyes, he nodded in bare acknowledgement to the warrior then turned to stride from the palace, glad to finally be quitting this barbaric land, with its crude idea of comforts, and heading back to his own opulent world. If this was the best the Greeks could do, maybe Pharaoh wasn't so crazy after all.

The Greek contingent followed immediately behind him, making a great show of escorting their champion to the docks, so it was quite a parade that wound through Corinth and along the wide road that led to the coast. However, once they got there, Hercules was astonished to see that only he and Iolaus were boarding the ship, the Egyptians already have set sail on their own.

"What? We're going alone? None of you are coming to watch the race and cheer on Greece's 'champion'?" he demanded. That tore it…they all knew it was going to be trouble, win or lose, and true to form, they were choosing to save their own skins. He glared at Iphicles, very, very, disappointed in his brother.

"No…you don't understand," Iphicles cut in, understanding the contempt he saw in his younger brother's eyes and wincing a little. "We need to show we are completely unconcerned, that this race is a foregone conclusion. By being absent, we are showing contempt for the Pharaoh and his delusions. Iolaus will win, and the Egyptians know you will come back to advise us of that fact…there's no need for us to be there, to watch as if we fear he might lose. We are signaling that we have better things to do than waste our time in frivolous pursuits. And," he continued when Hercules still looked skeptical, "if we were all there to witness his defeat, the humiliated Pharaoh might decide he needs to prove his virility and power, declaring war to redeem his image. You must see that it's far better if none of us go…none of us." Turning to Iolaus, he added, "Much as I would like to see you whip his sorry supposedly divine butt, as one of the rulers of Greece, I can not go with you."

"It's okay, Iph," Iolaus replied, shrugging, not at all bothered by being unencumbered with a bunch of kings and their inevitable crowds of hangers-on. "We'll tell you all about it. Come on, Herc…Iphicles makes sense and the tide's going out. We gotta go."

Casting one last exasperated look at his brother and the rest of the gathered royalty, the demigod turned to follow his partner up the gangplank. Sailors pulled it up immediately and the ship's lines were cast off. The sails were loosened, to catch the wind, and the ship drew out of the harbour, turning south toward Egypt.

The rulers of Greece, to honestly show their respect, stayed by the shore, watching until the ship was out of sight.

* * *

Iolaus strolled the deck as he munched on a good-sized portion of watermelon. Gods, it was hot. Even the breeze off the sea was searing rather than refreshing. He was glad the provisioners had thought to include fruits and foods like watermelon, to quench dry throats and to replace some of the moisture the sun was burning out of their bodies. Ambling to the rail, he tossed the rind into the sea and wiped his hands on his vest as he watched the muddy headwaters of the mighty Nile come into view. The great river was so powerful that it pushed itself out for miles before it melded with the turquoise sea. Another couple of hours and they'd be in port.

Hercules came to join him, leaning on the rail, looking off toward the thin line of green they could see on the horizon. "Won't be long now," he observed.

"Nope…and if the race is to be run during this moon's life, they'll be ready to hold it just as soon as we get there," Iolaus agreed. He wasn't particularly worried about the race. Why should he be? It wasn't as if the fate of his entire country was riding on it, or that he'd be racing horses he didn't know, hadn't chosen or worked with…just a simple contest, right?

Wrong.

He swallowed, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach, not wanting there to be any sign of his anxiety. It had been years since he'd raced, having given it up because Herc hated it. In the demigods' view, too much could go wrong in the fast-paced violence of a chariot race. Wheels could lock, horses could run too close to a rail, or to another chariot, getting bunched and colliding. Axles could crack and break under the strain, the chariot tipping, the charioteer dragged or thrown under the raging, heavy hooves of the opposing teams. Iolaus himself had never worried about any of these hazards, throwing himself into the challenge of the race, defying the odds and Fortune, exhilarated by the speed and the danger. And, he had been great at it, winning consistently, becoming something of a legend. But, he'd given it up in deference to his best friend's too clear fears that racing would one day kill him. The flush of triumph wasn't worth the shadows he always read in Herc's eyes both before and after the races, just because of one little accident, a long time ago.

"Nervous?" the demigod asked, not fooled by Iolaus' calm demeanor. His buddy wasn't a fool. Iolaus knew all too well what was riding on this race.

Startled into a giggle, Iolaus turned to him as he blurted, "Yes. But…only a little," he added, to minimize his admission. "I know I'll win…it's just that…."

Hercules stood to face his friend, aware that Iolaus needed all of his confidence now. Despite the roiling in his own gut, he forced assurance into his voice, and a smile to his lips, as he laid a strong, reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're going to be great. There's no doubt about that."

Unfortunately, it didn't work. Iolaus knew him too well. Looking up at his friend, his face falling, Iolaus turned aside and moaned, "Oh gods, I really am in trouble. If you're faking looking forward to this, just to cheer me up, you must be really worried."

Hercules chuckled at the theatrical display, knowing it was for his benefit, as he clapped Iolaus on the shoulder before he turned to lean again on the rail. Turning his fond gaze on his friend, he admitted, "Okay, I'm scared sick…but not about you losing. You know I hate these damned races…I won't relax until we're our way back to Greece.

Iolaus laughed then as he turned to look at Hercules. "Well, that's better. For a minute there, you had me worried."

In good spirits, the old friends watched as the land came into clearer view. It was mid-morning. Before dark, with luck, the race would be won and they'd be heading back to the port.

* * *

A massive coal black Nubian eunoch stood on either side of the gangplank as the heroes strode off the ship. The impressive men were garbed only in pristine white short kilts, their arms crossed over their chests, hands on their shoulders, as they bowed in ceremonial welcome. Lined up along the dock, there must have been two hundred fierce warriors, clad in full military regalia, shining bronze shields clamped close to their armoured chests, feet apart, spears angled from where they rested against each foot to a full arm's length from each of the rigid bodies. Skin deeply tanned by the sun, their faces expressionless as they stared straight ahead, eyes dark under the formal black woolen wigs and the flashing bronze helmets, the soldiers were an impressive sight.

Striding forward, the emissary they had met in Greece bowed to them in welcome. They might only be scruffy looking peasants, but they were the representatives of what could either be fond allies or fierce enemies…and formal court decorum demanded they be treated with all due honour and respect. Gesturing with one arm, the emissary guided them forward, leading the way from the busy dock, through the teeming town and out to the desert beyond. The soldiers fell into line behind them, the mounted cavalry pacing along on either side as an honour guard.

It was two good hours before they sighted the racing course, dwarfed by the massive pyramid and the nearby Sphinx. There were flags flying brightly in the hot, dry, afternoon breeze, and people thronged the area. Heralds had spotted the ship, and had scurried through town, shouting the news that 'Greece' had arrived and the contest was at hand. The Pharaoh had declared it a holiday, to ensure thousands would be there to witness his triumph. Drums beat, and horns blasted, announcing the arrival of Greece's champion. The crowd fell silent, straining to catch a glimpse of the man who held the fate of their nation in his hands. An intelligent people, the Egyptians knew they were not ready for a major war and dreaded a conflict with the barbarian warlike Greeks…but neither did they wish to see their Pharaoh lose, knowing this would be a sign of displeasure by the terrible, powerful gods that ruled their lives.

The emissary continued to plod ahead, indifferent to the curiosity of the crowd. Implacably, he led them forward until they had reached the centre of the thronging masses…an impromptu oasis, a place of calm and deceptive tranquillity created by a large open tent, its gossamer sheer silk curtained sides wafting gently in the breeze, its floor richly carpeted with hand-woven tapestries, with golden and generously pillowed stools scattered near ebony and ivory tables…and, incongruously, there was a lemonade stand just to one side, near the entry, with libations to quench even the greatest of thirsts.

The Pharaoh was sitting upon a gilded throne, regal in his majesty, confident in his godly glory. He too wore a simple pristine kilt, complemented only by sandals, gauntlets, a neck collar and the uraeus crown, all made of gold. His black eyes were emphasized with kohl, and seemed to stare through them as they approached. The emissary strode forward, fell to his knees and bowed his forehead to the floor, waiting until the Pharaoh signaled he was to rise.

"Majesty," the man intoned, "I bring you Greece."

Iolaus raised a brow at the awesome appellation, but he held his ground, inclining his head in respect, though not bowing fully. Hercules had remained one step behind him, deferring to Iolaus' role in this as Greece's champion and he, too, marginally inclined his head, his face impassive.

The Pharaoh studied the small, somewhat unkempt warrior for a long moment. His lips twisted, unsure whether to be offended or jubilant that his self-proclaimed enemy had sent such a lowly envoy. Well, so be it. If Greece was either so foolish or so arrogant as to have sent such a poor champion, then they deserved to lose this race, and the war to come. Waving a negligent hand, he called for refreshments, and slaves hastened to offer golden goblets of sharp lemonade to their living god, and to 'Greece'. Saluting his challenger, the Pharaoh drank. Saluting back, Iolaus drained his own goblet, glad of the tangy, sour refreshment.

Gods, it was hot.

The Pharaoh stood then, and sedately stepped down the three steps of solid marble slabs that supported the throne. "We will race now, for glory…and for the future of our lands. Come…the fates await."

Iolaus swallowed and cleared his throat, glad that he didn't seem to be expected to say anything. Being the embodiment of all of Greece was just a tad overwhelming and 'way too funny. He'd been afraid he'd burst out laughing. Casting a quick look of amusement at Hercules, who seemed typically pale and worried, just as he always had been before one of the races, Iolaus sauntered after the Pharaoh.

While they had been inside, their chariots had been drawn up and were waiting for them. All business now, Iolaus inspected the team that had been chosen for him, expecting to see flagged and inferior animals. He was pleasantly surprised. Clearly, the Pharaoh didn't want anyone claiming he'd won by guile or by taking unfair advantage. The four horses, white as the foam that glistened on the sea at dawn, were magnificent Arabian stallions, full of spirit and fire, prancing a little in their eagerness to run. Iolaus took his time, taking each of them by the head, holding them steady as he crooned softly to them and stroked their necks, so they'd know his voice and touch. The chariot, too, was finely crafted and sturdy, the leather of the reins soft and smooth to his hand. Glancing over toward the Pharaoh, Iolaus nodded, acknowledging the quality of the preparations that had been made for him. Satisfied, the Pharaoh nodded back, then climbed into his own chariot which was drawn by four huge black stallions, their dark hides shining like ebony under the glare of the unforgiving sun, taking reins in one hand and a whip in the other.

Iolaus turned for a moment to his friend, to offer him a reassuring grin. "It'll be alright, Herc…don't have a heart attack or anything, and remember to breathe every once in a while, okay?"

Trying to smile, failing miserably, Hercules simply nodded and gripped his buddy's shoulder. "Be careful…and good luck," he managed to say though his mouth was dry and his throat was tight.

"See you at the finish line!" Iolaus replied with a cocky wink, turning to step up into the vehicle, bracing his legs as he took up the reins and lifted his own whip from its sheath. When the Pharaoh set off, Iolaus flicked the reins, urging his own team along behind, until they wheeled into position at the end of the mile long course, which was shaped into a long, narrow oval. They'd round four turns before they returned to this spot about a quarter of the way along the first straightaway, the first charioteer across the line the winner.

The crowd went silent, a horn blew and a flag dropped…and they were off, thundering down the sandy channel between ropes strung to keep the excited crowd back.

The Egyptians cheered wildly for their King, waving scarves and flags, straining to see as the chariots plunged past. The teams, evenly matched, held neck and neck down the straightaway, flying as if they'd descended from Pegasus, born to run, to race the wind. The Pharaoh lashed his team with his whip, trying to drive them to greater speed, but Iolaus held his own whip back, only calling to his beauties, his voice carrying over the noise of the thronging multitude, but oddly gentle and compelling in their ears. Halfway down the long course, he flicked his whip once, just over their heads, and called them to battle with all that was in their hearts.

As if possessed, they burst ahead, pulling into the lead and angling toward the flimsy rail as they thundered into the first turn, the peasants there jumping back in horrified fear as the chariot flew past so close it almost took off their toes! Iolaus held the reins firmly, holding his team tightly into the turn, knowing it was these moments that required the maximum skill, and these moments alone that might well make the difference in the end.

He heard the Pharaoh cry out to his own team, urging them to greater effort, his whip snapping in the wind, brutally lashing the backs of his stallions. Eager to win, to make his dream real, he drew too close, the spinning spokes of the chariots drawing perilously near as they surged toward the next turn. Iolaus held his team tight against the edge of the course, using all the narrow space he had left to remain steady, away from those churning bronze shafts, careful not to crash into the crowd. But the whirling blades were too close and the Pharaoh didn't seem to realize the danger, so Iolaus pulled back a bit, just a touch, on the reins, to slow his team, allowing the deadly spokes to surge ahead, just enough to ensure they did not mesh with those on his chariot, or rip out the spokes of his wheel.

This was a race, not a battle and he didn't want anyone to die today.

As he watched the other chariot draw into the lead, the blond warrior shook his head. The Pharaoh was a fool, choosing such a perilous competition when it was only too clear he lacked the skill, experience and wisdom of a champion driver. Iph had been right, the guy was crazy and this was a charade, stupid and unnecessary. At that moment, Iolaus let slip his intentions to make this a close race, to save the Pharaoh's face before his own people. The man was too dangerous…and he'd kill them both if Iolaus didn't get well past.

Hanging back where it was safe didn't even cross his mind.

* * *

Hercules had to remind himself to breathe. Taller than anyone else there except for the Nubian eunochs, he could clearly see the action of the race play out, and he'd stiffened when the Pharaoh's chariot had borne in too close just past the first curve. The race playing out before his eyes merged with the shattered memories that haunted him of another race, years ago. It had been a moment like this, with Iolaus tight against the curve when another less competent driver had come in too tightly, ripping out the spokes in Iolaus' wheel. His buddy had acted with incredible calm, brilliance even, in pulling back on the reins to slow his team, bracing the whole of his strength against the battered structure of the chariot, to keep it on course, to keep it from flying off to the side, into the crowd, possibly killing untold numbers of people. He'd held on as the chariot came apart around him, breaking into wooden shards and finally disintegrating, leaving him to be dragged behind the surging horses, at first still digging in his feet, to slow them, so they'd not run wild and tear into other chariot teams. But, they were still going too fast, and he'd been dragged down along the hard, stony ground, other pounding hooves coming from behind, the spinning iron-rimmed wheels of other chariots bearing down upon him.

Hercules remembered watching, his heart in his throat, as Iolaus bounced hard, and again, trying to master his momentum, curling in self-protection as he'd tried to roll clear…and then it was all just noise and clouds of dust. The demigod had torn through the crowd, racing to get to his friend, whom he could now see lying still in the dirt at the far edge of the track. Skidding to a halt, he'd been sick at the sight of the blood, skin scraped down to muscle in some places…to bone. He couldn't imagine that Iolaus could still be alive after having been dragged and trampled. Feeling as if his world had shattered, everything going dark around the edges, all the noise somehow distant, he'd reached out a hand that was rigid with fear…and felt the warm, steady pulse of life.

Remembered tears glistened in his eyes now, as he heaved a heavy sigh, watching as Iolaus pulled back a bit, to get room, to avoid an accident. "Thank you," he muttered under his breath, feeling ridiculous. Iolaus had made the move to protect the spectators…he was too busy to be thinking about how his friend might be reacting to all that was happening. The demigod forced himself to swallow, the dryness of his mouth having nothing to do with the desert air. He stood, his legs braced, his arms crossed, unconscious of the breeze rippling through his long hair, his eyes and heart focused only on the chariots rounding the far curve and thundering up the distant straightaway. Gritting his teeth, he saw Iolaus make his move, saw his buddy's chariot surge ahead…and only then noticed the screaming cheering Egyptians…noticed them by their sudden, sharp silence as they too watched 'Greece' forge into the lead.

* * *

The Pharaoh laughed in anticipated triumph as his team thundered down the second straightaway, ahead of his challenger. Iolaus shook his head at the silly fool, and called to his own horses, flicking his whip twice just over the tips of their ears, as he simultaneously slapped the reins over their backs. They felt his spirit, felt the confidence and mastery in the way he handled them, and responded with everything in their souls. Their hooves churned into the soft packed hot sand, throwing it back in a roiling cloud as they dug in, their muscles straining, necks stretched, manes wild in the wind, tails streaming, glorious…they pulled level, then ahead, as if effortlessly, stride by stride moving into the lead, then pulling away as they raced for the far turn.

The race was won in those moments.

Iolaus' team bore into the turn, holding to it, never faltering, never losing stride. Then, into the last curve and around, tight and magnificent in their strength and speed. His team plunged down the last stretch of the course, running as if fresh, as if the race had only just begun. He felt the wind burn his face, and he squinted in the blinding light of the sun, wild curls glinting gold. Laughing, loving it all, he called to them once more and, once more, one last time, they leapt ahead to even greater speeds, glorious, plummeting down along the rail…surging across the finish line, lengths ahead of the chariot behind, lost in their dust.

Splendidly victorious, 'Greece' had won.

The cheering had long died away, the silence now oppressive, ominous. Frightened. Their Pharaoh, King of the Two Lands, God Incarnate, had lost.

The gods must be angry.

Hauling back on the reins, Iolaus gently turned his team, as they slowed to a light canter, cooling them off as he drove them back to the finish post. His body was glazed with sweat and dusted with the powder of the fine-grained sand. The Pharaoh had pulled up hard, harsh on the mouths of his horses, their bits biting cruelly. He stood, fuming and furious, appalled and humiliated to have been beaten by a peasant Greek… in his own land, before his own people.

Iolaus strove to maintain a calm, unconcerned demeanor as he jumped over the side of his chariot, handing the reins to a servant. He felt the silence and the fear around him as if it were a living thing…and the fury in the Pharaoh's eyes was a palpable force. His eyes on the Pharaoh, he was heedless of his steps, and didn't notice when his heel trod into a small pile of dung, steaming in the heat, already squirming with beetles. But, the servant noticed and gasped, as did any number of other spectators…and they relaxed, daring even to smile.

The gods weren't so displeased after all. They'd avenge this insult to the Pharaoh. Egypt was saved.

Iolaus hadn't noticed anything, but Hercules, strung tight by anxiety, only too aware of the growing hostility around him as the race had progressed, caught the sigh and the satisfied smiles as the crowd around the charioteers marginally relaxed. "What is it?" he demanded of the emissary who had remained by his side. "What just happened?"

Smiling, relieved, the emissary turned to him, eyes cold with contempt as he glared up at the demigod. "The Curse of the Dung Beetle," he replied with grim satisfaction. When Hercules frowned, confused, not understanding, the Egyptian elaborated, "Greece may have won this race…but her champion's blood will flow, that it might be drunk by the gods, before he ever sees his home again…if, indeed, he lives at all. The gods have shown their favour…our lands will not go to war, and the balance between our nations is restored."

The Pharaoh, too, had seen the sign. Lifting his arms to the sky, he called out his thanks to the gods for their judgment, then spread his arms wide, calling to his people, "Let the gods' will be DONE!"

Iolaus didn't understand the Pharaoh's words, but the tone gave him pause. The crowd erupted like a ravening beast, surging forward to fulfill the will of their gods. Hercules cried out to Iolaus, to warn him, and lunged toward his friend, but they were too far apart. Iolaus turned to face him, startled, not understanding what was happening or why, but seeing the massed throng bearing down upon him, screaming at him, their eyes wild, he realized he was in deep trouble.

Hercules was lashing out with his elbows and fists, tossing strangers aside, trying to force his way through, but frustrated by the seemingly endless flow of more and more people surging around him, leaping upon him, tripping him, trying to drag him down. Staggering, he continued to force his way toward Iolaus, seeing his friend spin into action, whirling, kicking, lashing out, fighting desperately…but hopelessly. Hercules screamed when he saw Iolaus dragged down under the weight of too many foes, as scores of people flowed around and over him, determined to overwhelm him. Blind with fury, the demigod fought his way forward, until something hard crashed into the back of his skull, felling him like a tree to the hot, pitiless sand.

The Pharaoh smiled grimly down upon the unconscious heroes as his people backed away from their bodies. Waving to his soldiers, he ordered, "Take them far into the desert and leave them that the gods may drink of his blood."

In response to his orders, soldiers dragged their limp bodies away from the improvised racecourse and through the crowds that parted before them, over to where the cavalry had left their horses picketed. An officer rummaged in his saddlebag and drew out a stoppered vial. Calling for a goblet of wine, he stared down at the bruised and battered men, especially at the big one, who had done so much damage in his rage. When a subordinate handed him the wine, he drew out the stopper with his teeth and emptied the vial into the goblet, not caring if he gave them so much they never awakened…just so long as they stayed unconscious until their bodies were dumped in the desert.

He motioned to a couple of soldiers to hold up the heads of their captives, and forced some of the foul brew down Iolaus' throat, saving most of it for Hercules. Finished, he stood back and with a jerk of his head, signaled they were to be tied over the backs of two of the horses. Once they were secured, the troupe mounted and rode southwest at a fast gallop, angling deep into the wasteland.

They rode for the rest of the day, and through the long evening…and still they did not stop. On through the cold, bitter night, until the dawn was breaking in the east and further still, stopping only when the sun was above the horizon. Holding up his hand, the officer slowed the patrol to a halt. He drew some papyrus from his kit, and some charcoal, scrawled a few lines and words, then slipped the message into a thin leather satchel, tossing it onto the sand. The curse must be fulfilled…but 'Greece' had won. The Egyptian's respect for the champion charioteer had demanded he offer this single gift of knowledge, though he doubted it would change the man's fate. Pointing at Iolaus, he gestured to the ground, and the still unconscious warrior was tossed roughly onto the dirt to lay sprawled on his back, his partner dragged over to be dumped face-first across his body.

The soldiers gave water to their horses before quenching their own thirst. Then, they again mounted and rode away, disappearing back into the desert.

* * *

"Mmmoughhhfff," Hercules moaned, struggling back to consciousness, wondering why he was lying on his face in the gritty sand. There was a relentless heavy pounding in his head, and he felt sick. "Io-laus…" he mumbled, vaguely knowing his buddy was in trouble and needed him.

"Gods…finally!" Iolaus groaned, panting a little. "Have a nice…rest?" he gasped.

"Wha…?" the demigod mumbled, certain that if he moved he'd be sorry.

"Herc…get off me," Iolaus almost begged, "…can't…breathe."

The sound of desperation, laden with the twisted tones of agony, penetrated Hercules' dazed state, forcing him sharply back to awareness. He pushed up onto his knees, bracing himself with one arm as his other hand came up to gingerly explore the back of his head, which had threatened to shatter as soon as he'd moved. Wincing, his gut roiling with nausea, he looked down at Iolaus, who he finally realized had been sprawled underneath him. Cramps lanced through his belly and he gagged, hot bile surging into his throat until he choked and wretched, both hands braced in the sand, as he emptied the foul mixture, or what was left of it, from his stomach.

Iolaus' right hand came up to steady him as best he could, bracing the demigod's trembling shoulder, scared to see Herc so violently sick.

"Oh…nice," he muttered, turning his head away from the sour smell. "Very nice. Thanks."

"Sorry," the miserable demigod murmured, struggling to steady his breathing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand…the world around him refused to stop tilting and whirling. Fighting to stay conscious, he closed his eyes against the dizziness and took slow breaths. Finally, his trembling eased as the nausea abated.

"You…okay?" Iolaus gritted through teeth clamped against his own pain and insistent queasiness.

"Yeah…I think so," Hercules responded, easing himself upright onto his knees. "Must'a been some kind of poison." Reluctant though, to open his eyes yet, lest the dizziness reclaim him, he asked, "Whyn't you just push me off?"

"Couldn't," Iolaus gasped.

The distress in his voice drove everything else from Hercules' consciousness. Looking down at his buddy, seeing the gray pallor, the beads of sweat on his brow, the demigod frowned as he demanded, "How bad are you hurt?"

"Oh…not bad. Shoulder's…dislocated. Arm's broke, I think," his partner reported, panting a little in distress. "And…my ribs…."

"Gods," Hercules murmured as he took in the distorted shape of his friend's left shoulder and the awkward twist in his lower left arm. Tentatively reaching out to touch the damaged limb, he looked into Iolaus' pain-filled eyes. "This is going to hurt."

"Do it," his buddy grated, turning his head away as he closed his eyes and tightened his jaw.

Hercules shifted to carefully brace Iolaus' arm over his own right bicep, angled toward his elbow, as he gripped his buddy's upper arm and laid a strong left hand on his shoulder to hold it steady. Holding his breath against the need to cause his friend pain, swiftly he pulled and twisted, popping the bone back into the joint, getting it done as quickly and cleanly as possible.

"Yyyunngghhh," Iolaus moaned deep in his throat, eyes pressed tight against the sharp blaze of agony, teeth gritted against the scream he wouldn't allow himself. "Sick!" he gasped.

Understanding, Hercules hastily laid his injured arm over his chest and rolled him onto his right side, holding him as he gasped and gagged, his stomach also ridding itself of the dregs of whatever it was had been fed to them. When he turned Iolaus, the demigod noticed the leather satchel pressed into the sand under his friend's body.

Pulling the small, thin case away, he eased his partner back, as gently as he could. Then, he checked for other injuries, grimacing when ribs gave under his light touch and Iolaus moaned again. "Easy," the demigod muttered. "I don't think they're broken, but they need to be bound."

"Great," Iolaus sighed squinting against the harsh light of the desert sun as he watched Hercules pull off his vest and shirt.

The demigod tore the shirt into strips, then eased them around his partner's body, drawing them tight before he tied them off. Then, he turned back to his partner's arm. It would need more support than a few shreds of cloth would provide, however tightly they were wound. Remembering the satchel, he picked it up and pulled the papyrus from it, tucking it under Iolaus' hip so that it wouldn't blow away. Then, with teeth and hands, he ripped the leather apart, tearing the long strap completely off. As gently as he could, he removed Iolaus' gauntlet, manipulated the broken bone back into line, then bound the leather around his friend's arm, securing it tightly with the gauntlet that he laced as tightly as he dared back over Iolaus' arm. Looping the long strap of leather around his buddy's neck, he drew it down and tied it off as a rough sling.

All the while he worked on Iolaus, he kept glancing at his partner's face, twisted with pain, trying so hard not to give into it. Iolaus grimly held on, focusing on his breathing, trying to master the flares of agony as Herc worked on his arm. To distract himself, Iolaus muttered, "Hoped there'd be…a prize…y'know…for winning. A bubble bath…maybe…and lots of…pretty girls…owwwww," he groaned, then bit it off. "But…they're really…sore losers…."

"That's it…I'm done," Hercules advised him, reaching up to wipe sweat from Iolaus' brow. "Just rest for a minute."

Iolaus sagged a bit, letting his rigid muscles relax as he closed his eyes against the hot sun. "Where…are we?" he muttered.

Hercules looked around, squinting against the glare of the desert sands as he took in their surroundings for the first time, and his heart sank. "Looks like the middle of nowhere," he replied, his voice tight.

"Damn…" Iolaus cursed. "I know they were mad…when I won…but, gods, they just went crazy!"

Hercules frowned as he gazed down at his partner, trying to remember. "You stepped into a pile of sh…"

"No need…to be crude," Iolaus quipped, trying for a grin and almost making it.

"No…I mean it…you stepped into some horse dung and somebody said something about a dung beetle's curse," Hercules explained. "That's when they attacked us." He felt a cold chill despite the relentless heat of the sun when he remembered what the emissary had said… 'blood will flow…if he lives….'

"Wonderful," Iolaus muttered. "Just what we need…an Egyptian curse."

His gaze caught by the papyrus under Iolaus' hip, Hercules pulled it free, cursing under his breath as he read it and stuffed it into his belt.

"Now what?" Iolaus asked, opening his eyes.

"Nice guys," the demigod grunted, "thoughtful…they left us a map…and a note. Our ship has been sent to another port along the coast of Libya. We'll have to cross the desert to get to it." Hercules studied his partner, wincing against the relentless hammering in his own head. A long, leisurely stroll across the empty desert wasn't what they needed at this point.

"How far," sighed Iolaus, wondering how much worse this was going to get before it got better.

"Hard to say," his partner responded.

"Did they also leave us a waterskin?" the blond warrior queried. It never hurt to be hopeful.

"No," grunted Hercules, disgusted. "Do you think you can travel?"

"Do I have a choice?" Iolaus replied, beginning to struggle to sit up. Hercules hastily reached out to support him and help him to his feet, where he swayed a little, but managed to keep from collapsing. "Just point me in the right direction," the blond warrior panted gamely.

Wrapping a supportive arm around his partner's waist, Hercules checked out the position of the sun, and led off in what he hoped was the right direction.

After a few steps, Iolaus asked, "You relaxed yet?"

"What?" frowned the demigod, not understanding.

"You said you wouldn't relax until we were on our way back to Greece," Iolaus reminded him, gritting his teeth against the pain, wishing he didn't feel so damned weak. "Well…we're on the way back."

Hercules just snorted.

* * *

Still suffering the effects of the drugs and the injuries they had taken, their bodies craving water, they struggled through sand that slithered and slipped under their boots, sliding away, making them stumble and lose ground. The sun, alone in the cloudless sky, beat down upon them, relentless, blinding with light that refracted back from the glistening endless sea of sand. Sweat poured down their faces and bodies, matted their hair, made their skin slick, gritty with the grains of sand which blew against them in a seemingly endless light wind. It got into their eyes and mouths, clogged their nostrils, snuck into the creases of their skin, scratching and irritating, adding to their misery.

Hercules' head pounded mercilessly, his vision still a little hazy and the nausea cramped in his gut. Silent, he kept his troubles to himself, more concerned about Iolaus, who was only too evidently suffering considerable pain. His buddy's breathing was laboured, the damaged ribs not helping. But, Iolaus just kept plodding along, sometimes leaning heavily into Hercules when his feet slipped, but otherwise trying to struggle along under his own steam.

Iolaus kept telling himself it was only pain, not important. He'd suffered broken arms and cracked ribs before, and he knew pain, an old if not a particularly well-liked acquaintance. He also still felt slightly sick from whatever the Egyptians had given them, but he didn't think he should feel this…wasted. However, despite his own misery, he could tell Herc was in worse shape. The strength was still there, steadying him when he stumbled in the damn sand, but he could feel Hercules trembling, saw him swallowing convulsively as if trying not to give in to the sickness that was tormenting him. And, he was weaving a little, unsteady on his own two very big feet.

They were sweating too hard, losing too much moisture they had no way to replace. Finally, in the shadow of a dune, Iolaus stumbled to a halt, gasping, "It's no good…we can't keep on…in this heat. Got to…rest."

Hercules staggered to a halt beside him, and helped Iolaus ease himself to the ground. Sagging down beside him, Hercules flopped over on his back, sprawled in the sand, eyes closed. Gods…how far did they have to go? How long was it going to take to make it to the coast? Wordlessly, he cursed his dizziness and the weakness that plagued him, hoping it would pass off. Gods…he was so tired…just wanted to sleep.

Iolaus watched him for a few minutes, trying to decide if Hercules' weariness was the result of a head injury or the garbage they'd been given to keep them knocked out. If it was a head injury, he shouldn't let Hercules drift off to sleep. If it was the poison, then sleep might be just what his best friend needed. Iolaus bit his lip, trying to decide what to do, feeling the burn of pain from his ribs and the sharper agony of the broken arm stealing his own energy. Finally, unable to fight his own persistent drowsiness, he decided it was the poison, and lowered himself to lie beside Hercules in the sand and greeted the darkness that stole over him with profound relief.

* * *

By the time the chill of night had roused them, a thin blanket of sand had drifted over their bodies. Hercules could taste the grit of it in his mouth as he sat up and looked around. It was very dark, the moon having completely waned, leaving only the light of the stars to cast an eerie slivery sheen over the desert. High dunes rose up from dark shadows, looming around them. Reaching over to Iolaus, he shook him lightly, mindful of his friend's injuries.

"Iolaus?" he called softly. "C'mon buddy, rise and shine."

"Humphff?" Iolaus muttered then groaned sharply when he moved his injured arm, still half asleep.

"How're you doing?" the demigod asked, wincing at the moan of pain.

"Oh, just hunky-dory," the blond warrior mumbled, as he lay still for a moment, mastering the pain, then struggled to sit up, spitting out the sand in his mouth and brushing it with much evident disgust from his body. The cold of the desert night penetrated his consciousness and he shivered. "What a country…broil you by day and freeze you by night," he complained. "Coat you with sand and baste you with your own sweat."

Hercules chuckled at the mostly good-natured whining, and reached down to help Iolaus stand. Coming to his feet, Iolaus looked around, then up at the night sky. "Well, at least there're no clouds. Northwest is thataway," he pointed through the dune that loomed at their backs.

"Of course," Hercules agreed amiably, shaking his head as he lent a hand to his buddy, steadying him as they began the slow, slippery assent. The way had to be up and over…it couldn't be as easy as just walking along in the shelter of the dune, out of the ever-present wind.

As they staggered up the slope, Iolaus glanced sideways at his friend. "You seem to be feeling friskier this evening," he observed, relieved to see that Hercules seemed more like his old self.

"U huh," Hercules agreed, one hand straying to the back of his head. "Headache's still there, but not so bad. Dizziness seems to have let up and the effects of the drug have worn off."

"That's good," Iolaus replied, slipping and unconsciously reaching out to his friend for support.

Neither of them mentioned their gnawing hunger, or worse, the thirst that was becoming really annoying. Nor did they complain about the sand in their faces, about how it seems to have sifted through their clothes, gritty and irritating. What was the point? Talking about it wouldn't make it any better. In fact, talking would only use up breath and energy they needed for the trek. Still, Iolaus' uncharacteristic silence told the demigod his friend was suffering too much to bother with the useful cheerful banter he routinely used to lighten even the worst situations. So, Hercules stayed a close half step behind to support Iolaus when he needed it, trying to make the agonizing endless struggle up and over the steep dunes as easy as possible.

On and on they trudged, mile after endless mile, feeling as if they were making no progress at all, the landscape unvarying, the view from the crest of one dune the same as the last. But, it was easier than marching by day. The chill of the night drove them on, glad for the warmth the exercise gave them. And though it was dark, the frail light of the stars was more than enough to make out the way ahead…and the glittered shards of light provided a map of sorts, one that both could read with ease. It gave them confidence, the feeling that they knew where they were going, that there was one thing familiar in this foreign land.

Nor was the desert completely barren. Rolling, wraithlike shapes drifted along with the wind, tumbleweeds of tangled dead vines that traveled eternally across the desert sands. And there was an occasional patch of nettles, hardy little torments that would probably grow in Tartarus. They hadn't noticed them until Iolaus went down on one knee, his right hand flying out to support himself when he stumbled hard, to keep from falling fully on his face.

"OW!" he exclaimed, indignant. It was enough to be injured…did the desert have to insult him, too, throwing these annoying nuisances directly into his path and then tripping him onto them? Rolling off to the side, landing on his butt, he sucked at the damaged hand, trying to pull out the stinger with his teeth, and not having much luck.

"What is it?" Hercules asked, concerned, dropping down on one knee beside him, a hand on his right shoulder.

"Goathead stickers," Iolaus mumbled with heartfelt disgust, still trying to deal with it himself.

The demigod winced in sympathy as he tugged at Iolaus' hand, drawing it out of the shadow, into the meager light of the stars. With a delicacy that was surprising in hands so large, he pulled out the two sharp nettles and cast them into the night. Regrettably, it wouldn't stop the pain. He knew that the barbs of the damned things usually remained stuck inside, taking days to work their way out, and causing a considerable degree of misery in the mean time.

Iolaus went back to sucking on his injured hand, shivering again in the cold now that they had stopped moving. His ribs ached, his left arm and shoulder pulsed with pain, he was hungry and thirsty and felt completely miserable. "Next time I agree to something as dumb as this, throw me in a cave and roll a rock in front of it until my urge to be stupid passes," he mumbled around his hand.

Hercules rubbed his shoulder consolingly. "Ah, well, if these little stupid urges didn't get the better of you from time to time, you wouldn't be you, Iolaus."

"Is that a fancy way of saying, 'I told you so'?" his buddy groused back.

"Uh huh," replied the demigod, once again climbing to his feet. "We should keep moving…dawn won't be far away."

"Right," sighed Iolaus, reaching for a hand up, confident it would be there, as always.

Just before dawn, the dunes flattened out to a plain of sand, stretching as far as they could see, only the odd pile of boulders to break its barren sameness. Glad to be out of the dunes, at least for a while, they strode out across the sand, their boots still sinking a little, but not slipping as badly. They headed toward one large cluster of boulders, thinking the mound of stone would give them some shade, at least for part of the day.

They were halfway there when Iolaus paused, head coming up, the hairs on the back of his neck twitching for all they were worth. A hunter's instincts…knowing when he was being hunted. Putting out a hand, he stopped Hercules, drawing a puzzled look.

"Something's out there," Iolaus murmured, his eyes raking the starlit sand as he turned in a slow circle.

It was coming from almost straight behind, so that he didn't see the small surging mound of sand at first, bearing down upon them…didn't see it until it was almost too late.

"SAND MANTA!" he screamed, and lurched to push Hercules back.

The demigod had seen it at exactly the same time, and having more experience with the monsters, held Iolaus' arm tightly for a moment, not letting him run and draw the beast's attention. Just as it seemed it must bowl them over, the huge ugly gaping jaws of the creature burst from the sand directly in front of them. Hercules flung an arm around his buddy, leaping with him far to the side, twisting to take the force of the fall with his own body, the beast flying over where they had been then diving back into the sand to circle back around. Hitting the ground to roll quickly back to his feet, Hercules dragged Iolaus up and pushed him toward the boulders, yelling, "RUN!"

Both of them pounded as fast as they could over the sand, their flying feet kicking up puffs of grit. Both kept a wary eye out, and listened for the peculiar low thrum of the manta moving just under the sand. It came at them again, just before they made the rocks, and Hercules again thrust Iolaus out of the way, a little too slow himself that time as the creature closed its heavy fang-lined mouth around his boot. Pulled down hard onto the sand as the creature tried to drag him under, Hercules flipped onto his back, his fingers digging into the sand to fight being drawn under and kicked with all his Olympian strength. Iolaus grabbed hold of his shoulder, looping his right arm under Herc's and digging in his feet, hauling backward to counter the drag of the monster, ignoring the tearing of his ribs as he pulled desperately to keep Hercules from being pulled under the earth.

One brutal kick after another, feeling himself losing ground, yelling and cursing unconsciously at the beast to let him go…until finally the thing screamed in a high-pitched whistle and let the demigod loose as it again lost itself in the sand. This time, it was Iolaus who hauled Hercules up, and turned him roughly toward the rocks, now only a few steps away. They barely made it, Herc practically tossing Iolaus up then scrambling up himself just as the monster made another run, charging them mindlessly…and splattering against the solid granite base of their refuge. Panting for breath, they whipped around and away from the spray of blood. Only then did they see the other one, circling the boulders on the far side, until it gave up and moved off, a surging wave of sand disappearing into the shadows of the uncertain pre-dawn light.

Iolaus sagged back onto the stone, blowing out a long breath. "Well, that was exhilarating. Just what we needed to liven up the pace a bit," he observed, staring up into the lightening sky. Damn it. They wouldn't dare huddle in the shade at the base of the rocks…they'd be too vulnerable to attack. When that sun came up, they were going to sizzle like eggs on a hot skillet.

Hercules had dragged the now ragged map from his belt, frowning at it, trying to decide how far they'd come, how far there was left to go, and then crushed it, irritated. There was no way to know. "This was one little amusement they didn't bother to highlight on the map, or mention in their note," he muttered, stuffing the papyrus back down under his belt.

"Guess they wanted to surprise us," Iolaus murmured, exhausted. "How's your ankle?"

"It's fine," the demigod replied, looking around their barren refuge, and out over the wide space of sand to the horizon. How in Tartarus were they going to get out of this? How many mantas were there? Frowning, he figured at least three, maybe more. They usually hunted in pairs.

Unconvinced, Iolaus had rolled onto his side so that he could get a better look at Herc's leg, to be certain the manta hadn't chewed it half-off. It would have had to have been bitten off completely before Hercules would have admitted that he might have been a tad bruised by the encounter. Scowling at the puncture holes in the boot, he demanded, "Check that…see if you're bleeding."

Irritated by their situation, by his worry about Iolaus, who looked like death warmed over, the demigod snapped, "I said it's fine!"

"And I said to check it!" Iolaus snapped back. "Now."

Hercules rolled his eyes with a put-upon sigh, then grumbling, "Alright, alright," he bent to examine his aching leg. For a thin little thing, the manta had surprisingly powerful jaws. He loosened his boot and felt around, his fingers coming back tipped with blood.

"What the…!" Iolaus gasped, sitting up to conduct his own examination, but Hercules waved him back, turning to him with a reassuring grin, "It's just a few scratches…honest! And, mantas aren't poisonous, so my ankle should be fine…a little swollen maybe for a day or so, but fine. Will you relax now?"

Iolaus looked into the clear gaze, then eased himself back down. Herc wouldn't complain, but he wouldn't actually lie either. If he was hurt, really hurt, he'd've said so because it impacted on both of them. Iolaus knew there was no way he was going to be able to get out of this particular predicament on his own. "Okay," he allowed, closing his eyes, his right hand unconsciously cradling his left arm, to give it more support.

Herc's smile faded into an expression of worry. Licking a tongue over dry lips, noticing they were beginning to crack, he wondered how much longer Iolaus would be able to go on. Looking down at the blood that had already dried on his fingers, the moisture sucked into the greedy air, he remembered again the curse…and hoped this was the only blood he'd see before they finally made it home.

Because they would make it.

There was no way they were going to die out here because of some crazy Pharaoh's dream and the mindless clicking of a dung beetle's wings.

No way.

* * *

The sun scorched them, leeched the moisture from their bodies, and burned them ruthlessly. But unlike the fiery blast of a furnace that suddenly flared, or the bolt of an angry god, this blaze did not abate, but continued to pour fire down upon them hour after hour.

They slept, as best they could, fitfully, knowing they needed the rest. But the thirst had gone from being something remote, something that could be ignored, to a vast, endless reality of misery. Their lips cracked in the heat, and their tongues began to swell, making their mouths feel full of hot cotton. Their skin grew red, and hot, until the pain of it seared them. The wind picked up a little, adding its own misery as it scoured their skin with the tiny bits of sand it carried with it.

Iolaus had curled onto his side, trying to hide his face from the sun, knowing the last thing he needed was eyelids so burned that they swelled shut. He dreamed of water. Cool, limpid mountain pools, still in the dawn's gray light. Sparkling rushing streams, gurgling over rocks and pebbles. Surf, smashing up along a stony shore. Rain, gentle on his face, light and refreshing…or slashing with a bitter chill. A hot bath, easing aching muscles. And pitchers of it, ice cold, pouring over his head and down his throat, only somehow, the wonderful, refreshing water changed, into sand, clogging his throat, choking him, and he moaned with the terror of it.

Restless with pain and cruel thirst, he moaned again, twitching in his uneasy sleep, disturbing Hercules, waking him. The demigod winced against the brutal weight of the sun, and rose up on one elbow, to look down at his still slumbering partner. The skin that wasn't covered with bound cloth or tattered vest was burned a deep angry red, and sweat glazed Iolaus' forehead, shadowed a little in the lee of his right arm. His face was twisted with a pain that he couldn't hide in his sleep, and he panted a little, his ribs still giving him a rough time. Lips swollen, and cracked, eyes beginning to get a sunken look. Not good. Not good at all.

Squinting, lifting a hand to shade his eyes, the demigod checked out the sun's position, and realized they'd managed to sleep, however badly, most of the day. Well, the rest, at least, would help. But, as he gazed out again across the sand, he wondered if they could wait until dark to make their move. The mantas would be harder to see at night. They needed light for this battle.

"Iolaus?" he called out, his voice raspy and dry.

"Huh? Wha'?" mumbled his partner, sluggish, aching. Iolaus rolled and winced at the fire that flamed from his skin, and blinked to open his eyes.

Hercules frowned at the confusion that clouded those so familiar eyes, dull now with pain and the cruel deprivation of thirst. "Wake up, buddy. Time to dance."

"Dance? Okay," Iolaus agreed with forced aplomb. "Always liked dancing…." He struggled up, scared at how wasted he felt. The sun was killing them…and wasn't taking all that long about it, either. "Where's the party?" he muttered, his voice thick as he looked around, a little dazed.

"Right over there," Hercules gestured toward the plain of endless sand. "But…we'll need to drum up some partners. You up to it?"

Iolaus nodded, trying to swallow against the parched dryness of his throat. "Sure, how we goin' t'do this?" He frowned, knowing he should be thinking more clearly than this, knowing the sense of confusion wasn't a good sign. Shrugging, he pushed the feeling away and turned to focus on Hercules, to pay attention to what he was saying.

Hercules studied him closely, worried that Iolaus seemed so dazed, needing to have it spelled out, as he elaborated, "The same way as usual…move out a little ways from each other, stamp the ground, then run like blazes curving toward each other and then ducking when they leap out of the sand at us. It's worked before, a couple of times…don't see why we shouldn't try the same thing again." He waited until Iolaus nodded, signaling he'd understood. His buddy looked like he was really fading, and Hercules wondered if Iolaus was up to this. But, he reflected, looking back at the endless wasteland, they didn't have much choice. They couldn't stay here. Iolaus would do what he had to do…he always did, even when it was impossible.

Standing, Hercules helped Iolaus up, steadying him a little, then eased him down off the rocks. It was when he stood that he realized Iolaus wasn't the only one who'd slowed down some. His ankle had swollen in his boot, and throbbed now with urgent protest when he put his weight on it. Gritting his teeth, he ignored it as best he could. There was no time to worry about it or indulge it. Time was awasting and they needed to be on their way to the coast, to their ship.

Once they were on the sand, they walked gingerly, as gently and quietly as possible away from each other until they were about forty feet apart. Hercules spotted some bones sticking up from the sand, a camel he decided from the length of them. One was particularly long and splintered, as if the beast's leg had been broken. He picked it up, in case it might come in handy. The two heroes, reaching their positions, turned to face one another, to watch the sand behind each other's backs so that neither could be taken by surprise. And, then, they began to stamp the ground as hard as they could, eyes straining, scanning the sand, stamping harder and faster, Herc balancing on his bad ankle as he pounded the sand with his good leg.

"Incoming!" cried Iolaus as Herc yelled, "Behind you!"

They turned as one and ran as fast as their legs could churn, both frightened by their sluggishness and the poor grip they got in the sand. Iolaus was awkward, off-balance with his bad arm, and his chest was tight, making it hard to drag in the air he needed. Hot air that scorched his lungs. Hercules' ankle protested with each pounding step, threatening to give out, shards of agony shooting up his leg. They ran, in a long curve, toward one another, thinking a lousy few feet had seldom seemed such an overwhelming distance. They could hear the thrum over the pounding of their blood in their ears and the rasp of their boots in the sand. Closer, but the thrum was closer, too, gaining…running, desperate, having to get to one another.

"Down!" cried Hercules, diving to bowl Iolaus over, his buddy concentrating so hard on staying on his feet and running that he hadn't realized they'd finally come together. They went sprawling in the hard sand as the two mantas surged out of the earth, flying over them, their great shadows blocking out the sun, and then the beasts collided, mouths and fangs agape, ripping into one another in a blast of eerie shrill high-pitched screams and a burst of green blood and flying flesh.

"Yuch," Iolaus muttered, wiping smelly goop from his face.

Hercules had grinned and turned aside, only to see another manta break the ground coming right at them. Instinctively, he struck out with the long, sharp bone, driving it up, inside the monster's mouth, into its brain. The clamping of the massive jaws was slowed by the restriction of the wedged bone just long enough for Hercules to yank his arm back and throw himself to the side, over his buddy. The jaws slammed shut, driving the long bone up through its brain, killing it as it flailed in the air, dropping to cover them with its heavy, leathery carcass.

Hercules thrust up hard, knocking it aside, wanting it off them. Then he turned, scanning the land around them, still, waiting…until he finally relaxed. That seemed to be the lot of them, at least for now. Relieved, he looked down at Iolaus who was just lying there in the dirt, not moving, though his eyes were trying to keep the demigod in focus.

"What? Thought you'd take a nap?" Hercules asked.

"Sure…not like there's anything interesting going on," Iolaus quipped back. But, he still didn't move. When Herc quirked a brow, the blond warrior semi-shrugged, as he explained, "I'm just waiting to see if you're finished fighting flying sand fish yet."

Chuckling, Hercules bent over to haul Iolaus to his feet. "I'm done…let's get out of here."

"Right behind you," Iolaus assured him, though he moved out slowly, feeling dizzy and disoriented.

He tried gamely to keep going, but his steps lagged, slower and slower…and he couldn't seem to lift his feet high enough to keep from stumbling. The sun was just beginning to set when he went down again…and stayed there. Concerned, Hercules dropped down beside him. "Time for another nap? I thought you wanted to see the sea." The words were jocular, but the look in his eyes was dark with worry as he gently touched Iolaus' flushed, dry face. He'd stopped sweating. Bad. Very bad.

"Dammit…I don't …understand it," Iolaus gasped, frustrated, muddled…knowing something was very wrong. "I…shouldn't be this…bad." It had just been a broken arm and a few cracked ribs. And it hadn't been much more than two full days since they'd last had water. He should have been good for at least another day, regardless of the sun and the heat. It got hot in Greece, too, and it wasn't the first time he'd gone without water for a couple of days. "Something…not right…" he gasped, lying sprawled in the sand.

"You're doing fine," Hercules consoled, trying to calm him, but feeling his own heart clench with fear. Iolaus was right…he shouldn't be this badly off, even considering the broken and cracked bones. He'd seen Iolaus walk on a broken leg, fight monsters, and demons with a broken arm, carry on when he was almost blind with fever and pain. Something was killing him, faster than the heat, the sun or the lack of water.

"No," Iolaus frowned, trying to calm the hammering of his heart, trying to think. His gaze sought Hercules, shadowed with alarm he couldn't quite hide. "The damned curse…maybe…"

Hercules lips parted, and he looked away from that burning gaze, considering the possibility. The gloating emissary had as much as said that the curse could kill Iolaus…but, he'd also said something about blood, and so far at least, Iolaus was broken but still in one piece. Swallowing, he shook his head. There was no way to know…or, even if there was, nothing that he knew of that he could use to fight back. Turning his gaze back to Iolaus, he shrugged, "You've been cursed by worse things than a dung beetle. How bad could it be?"

He was rewarded by a crooked grin, and a weak approximation of a giggle. "Well, when you…put it like that," Iolaus muttered, groping for Herc's hand. "Help me up."

"Maybe you should just rest a little longer," the demigod suggested, wondering how much more Iolaus could take.

Shaking his head weakly, Iolaus hauled himself up, using Herc's arm as a brace. "Nah…I'll sleep on the ship," he replied, his voice weak, hoarse.

Nodding reluctantly, Hercules helped him up the rest of the way, keeping one hand on his back to steady him. Wordlessly, Iolaus plodded on, glad that the sun was finally going down…dreading the coming of the icy night.

* * *

The blond warrior collapsed again before midnight…and this time, much as he wanted to, he just couldn't stand up again. Hating it, but suffering the indignity silently, he let himself go limp and unresisting when Hercules picked him and draped him over one strong shoulder. No point in fighting it…besides, he didn't have the strength left to fight a butterfly, let alone a determined demigod.

Hercules strode on, picking up his pace, despite the stabs of agony from his ankle, desperate to cover this endless reach of sand as quickly as he possibly could. The wind had picked up again, cold and lashing at their tender, burned skin, the sand scraping as it blew past them. Iolaus was uncharacteristically silent, shivering violently in the cold, using up precious energy and it worried him…scared him actually. His buddy was fading away before his very eyes, getting weaker by the hour. At one point, his desperation growing unchecked, he began to lope across the sand, until Iolaus called sharply to him to stop. Alarmed, he ground to a halt and pulled Iolaus back over his shoulder, into his arms, searching his friend's face in the darkness. "What is it?" he asked, panting a little. "What's wrong?"

"You need a break," Iolaus replied, his voice little more than a whispered rasp. "You're…pushing too hard."

Hercules jerked his head back, irritated. It wasn't like they had all the time in the world. But, Iolaus cut into his thoughts, "Listen…to me. I can hear you're having trouble…breathing. You're…not invincible. Even you need water. Don't run…just walk."

The demigod sighed. Iolaus was right. If he exhausted his own reserves, which he tended to think of as boundless, but knew better, they'd both die in this desert. "You're just scared you'll lose your ride," he chided gently, but the gentleness of his grip around his friend's body belied the charge.

"Exactly," Iolaus confirmed, nodding his head weakly. "Now, toss me over…your shoulder and let's…go."

Hercules gave him a small smile, then did as directed, heading off again at a more reasonable, but steady, pace through the dying night.

* * *

Another blistering day, another grinding night. Hercules felt his anger and fear build. How long was it going to take to cross this damned sea of sand? Iolaus was getting worse, muttering as he slipped in and out of consciousness. And, the demigod knew his own strength was fading, too. Iolaus was right, he could endure almost anything, but even he needed water. He'd taken to carrying Iolaus in his arms, so that if he stumbled, he'd be able to twist and save his friend from the worst of the fall. Make that 'when' he stumbled, which was happening with discouraging frequency.

Finally, as the fourth day dawned, he was beginning to wonder if they were really going to make it this time. His tongue was so thick, he could hardly swallow, and there was so little moisture left in his body that he'd taken to sucking on small stones to try to get some relief. Once again, there was no shade, no shelter of any kind, and they'd be helpless under the scourge of the sun. Both of their bodies had blistered from the burns and they were both in a kind of daze of agony.

Exhausted, desperate with thirst, Hercules sank down to his knees before he fell down, and laid Iolaus onto the cold sand. His buddy shivered a little at the change from the closeness to Herc's warm body to the icy ground. He'd been trying to stay conscious as much as he could, but he knew he'd been drifting in and out, waking when Hercules would stumble and crash to the ground, rolling to protect him, and then wordlessly stagger up again once he'd made sure Iolaus wasn't hurt.

Seeing the shiver, Hercules slumped down beside him and pulled his friend into his arms, his back to the east to shade Iolaus as much as he could from the burning rays of the sun which had just risen over the far horizon, his eyes drooping closed as he fell into a kind of waking sleep.

Iolaus gazed up at his friend, frowning at how ravaged Herc's face seemed to be in the lightening shadows. His eyes were sunken, and his face was lined and drawn with strain. He looked beaten, and his breathing didn't sound good. Gods…Herc was exhausted. Iolaus closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of the damage this terrible journey was causing, feeling guilty for adding to Hercules' burden, literally. Twisting his head a little, he looked out across the desert, wondering how far it was to water. Hercules couldn't go on much longer. And, when he was done, that was it, for both of them.

His face creased in thought, Iolaus reflected back to what had brought them here. Had he been wrong to volunteer so readily for this mission? Had he dragged Hercules into something even the demigod couldn't survive? There hadn't been a lot of choice, or a lot of time to debate the options. Sighing, he accepted that he hadn't really had any choice, and there'd never been a question of his coming alone. He and Herc were partners, they traveled together…that's the way it was.

But…Herc needed water, or he wouldn't make it to the coast. Given his own advancing weakness, and his tendency to fade off, Iolaus wasn't at all sure he'd make it that far, even if Hercules could. Water…but there wasn't any water. Or plants to chew on, or fruit, or even meat…meat. Blood.

Maybe.

"Herc?" he rasped, wondering how he was going to persuade his buddy to the logic of this desperate act.

"Mmmm?" came the weary reply.

"Need to talk to you," Iolaus persisted. Oddly, he felt better even as he felt worse. His arm didn't hurt so much, and his shoulder was almost fine. His ribs didn't pull so badly with each breath. It was just that he was so tired…weak and desperate for water…and the persistent foreign weakness that was dragging him down, worse even than his need for water. He felt as if he was fading, and he didn't like the sensation much. But, maybe there was still something he could do to help.

"What is it?" the demigod sighed, desperate to sleep, but forcing his eyes open to gaze down into Iolaus' earnest, almost clear gaze. Tilting his head a little, he wondered what the odd look in Iolaus' eyes meant.

"You need to drink something," Iolaus said, his voice barely audible.

Nodding, the demigod looked around at the desert. "Uh huh…but unless you can turn sand into water, we'll just have to wait a little longer. We can't be far now…another night." Gods…another day before the night. Another day of blinding heat that sucked everything out of them, beating them down. Another night of endless miles of sand. Pushing his despondency away, Hercules held onto his determination.

And Iolaus.

He had nothing left to hold on to.

"There's moisture," Iolaus replied, "liquid even."

"Oh yeah," the demigod quirked a worried smile, wondering if his buddy was hallucinating. "Where?"

The blond hunter raised a weak hand to tap his chest. "Here," he murmured.

Hercules frowned, not understanding…but not liking where this might be going. He shook his head.

"Listen…you know…you know I can lose a lot of blood…" Iolaus tried to explain, but Hercules cut him off, revolted.

"Blood? You're suggesting I, what? Drink your blood?" His voice thick with disgust, horrified by the idea, Hercules shook his head sharply, looking away. This conversation was over.

"Why not? I drank yours once…" Iolaus argued. "It's a little salty…but not bad."

Hercules' face twisted in memory. He looked back down at his buddy, feeling again the horror of knowing Iolaus had been turned into a vampire…and his determination to save his best friend from the ghastly living death, the need to share his own blood to keep Iolaus alive. But, this was different. He couldn't imagine actually… flinching away from the idea, he couldn't believe Iolaus would even suggest such a thing. "You're not serious."

"Yeah…I am," Iolaus replied soberly, his gaze never wavering. "If you don't get some fluid into your body, you won't be able to go on. You don't have any choice."

Hercules swallowed at the nausea that clutched at him. He shook his head again, as he choked, "NO! I won't do that! Gods, Iolaus…that's…that's sick."

"So's dying," his buddy countered softly. When Hercules just looked away, doing his 'I'm not here, I don't hear this' routine, the warrior sighed. "Suit yourself," he murmured. "But…if you change your mind, my knife's in my boot. I could spare you a mugful…but like the horse that can be led to water, I can't make you drink."

"Damned right you can't," the demigod muttered. "Go to sleep."

"There's…another choice," Iolaus offered, knowing it too would be refused, but having to try. When Hercules returned his gaze to his own, he murmured, "You'd make it, maybe, on your own."

Hercules rolled his eyes, his lips thinning in irritation before he replied with Vlad's accent, "I'll drink your blood before I leave you behind."

"Okay," Iolaus grinned impishly, having made his point.

Shaking his head, Hercules just said again, "Go to sleep."

"Yes, mother," the hunter quipped weakly.

"Now," the demigod growled, shifting to lie down beside his friend, still holding Iolaus close to his chest. His buddy was in bad shape, despite his bold attempts to make bizarre conversation, and Hercules had reached the point where he was afraid to let go of him, lest Iolaus slip away when he wasn't paying attention. Closing his eyes, though, he couldn't fight his own exhaustion any longer, and he slipped off into a deep sleep.

* * *

The sun was long gone by the time Hercules woke again, feeling dazed and disoriented. His mouth was so dry he could scarcely swallow, and it took a massive effort just to lift his head. His whole body ached, cramped from the lack of water and the brutal punishment of the sun. Stifling a groan, pushing back his growing desperation that the coast might just be too far, he pushed himself up and turned to Iolaus, reaching out to gently shake his buddy's shoulder.

"I'm…awake," Iolaus murmured, though he didn't move. He was dying. He could feel it. Like a shadow he couldn't quite see in the dark, there was a force draining what was left of his strength and will away. He'd felt it throughout the whole journey, dragging him down, worse than the sun, adding its force to the lack of water…sapping his will. The damned curse…it was all bad enough, the heat, the dehydration, the fire of the sun. But, it was the curse that had brought him to this despicable helplessness that was killing him faster than the desert ever could have. He knew it…and he was furious.

"Why didn't you wake me…the sun's been down for hours," Hercules demanded, a trace of anger in his voice. Time was running out for both of them. They could have been miles closer to salvation by now.

"You needed…the rest," his buddy snapped back driven by his own helpless anger, regretting it instantly. Gods, they might not have much time left. He didn't want to spend it fighting. He sagged a little and sighed. Iolaus had watched Hercules sleep, sorrowed and frightened by how much Hercules, too, was suffering from the merciless dehydration. For all Hercules often despaired of, even loathed, his relationship to the gods, he also routinely ignored the fact he was half-mortal. But, Iolaus never forgot…and he could see the half-mortal part was at the end of his endurance. Even Herc couldn't go on much longer. Iolaus had hoped the period of extended rest would help, knowing how quickly Hercules could recuperate, but rest hadn't helped this time. Couldn't. Rest wasn't what Herc's body needed.

Shamed by his anger, knowing Iolaus had once again only been thinking of him, what he needed, regardless of the danger to himself, Hercules shook his head slowly. Brushing sand from his partner's face, he asked, "How're you doing?"

Iolaus forced a chuckle, which sounded more like a rattle in his dry throat. "Just great," he rasped. "Nothing like a holiday in the desert…fun in the sun…to make a new man…of me."

"Yeah, right," Hercules grunted, as he rose and lifted Iolaus into his arms. 'One step at a time,' he told himself. 'One step at a time.'

For the next two hours, Hercules staggered across the sand, driven to lift his leaden legs by sheer will alone. His breathing was laboured, but he refused to stop, afraid if he did, he might never be able to get up again. Iolaus drifted in and out, knowing there was nothing more he could do, nothing more that he could offer. It was up to Hercules now. The hunter felt a certain calm at that. He'd trusted Herc for the whole of his life, been willing to die for, or with, him innumerable times. If this was it…well, it had been a good run. But, in his more lucid moments, Iolaus fought that calm, that eerie acceptance that was foreign to his being and willed himself to hold on. Herc wouldn't be able to get blood from a dead man…that is, if the big guy ever finally accepted that it was the only way he, at least, was going to make it.

On and on, mile after agonizing mile, each step harder than the last, slower…but still Hercules persevered. Resolute. Determined that they'd make it, that nothing would stop him. Nothing.

But, he hadn't counted on having to fight the wind.

It had been an ever-present reality, blowing sand into their faces, stinging and scraping their skin raw. But, gradually, he became aware that it had changed…was blowing harder…until he was leaning into it. Sand gusted into his face, making him choke and gag and he had to turn sideways, his head turned away, angling his body to try to protect Iolaus as best he could. But, he still stumbled onward, afraid to stop.

But…it just kept getting worse until he was staggering through a sandstorm, floundering in the drifts that pulled at his legs, stumbling…and finally falling, unable to rise again, to curl around Iolaus to shelter him from the worst of the searing, scouring blast.

The sand blew over and around them, catching against the demigod's broad back until it was drifting over them, half burying them in a living tomb.

Mercifully, the wind finally dropped before they were suffocated. But, it had done its damage…Hercules was beaten. He didn't have anything left. Having finally fallen, he knew he couldn't get up again. Not and carry Iolaus, too, and there was no way this side of Tartarus that he was going to abandon his best friend in this alien land of death.

Iolaus stirred, whispered, "Herc?"

"Yeah," the demigod muttered, squeezing his eyes shut against the reality of having to admit he was beaten.

"You have to keep going…leave me…go…." Iolaus breathed with a kind of aching despair, knowing that Herc might still have a chance on his own, knowing that he was the dead weight that was bringing Hercules down. Gods, it was bad enough to be useless…but to be a burden was more than he could bear.

"No," was all the response he got, until Hercules sighed. "I'm sorry…I…this is it, I guess."

Iolaus closed his eyes, then bit his lip, panting a little in his weakness, cursing it silently, as he fought to bend his knee and twist enough to reach his knife. Finally, blowing out a soft sigh, he drew it from his boot, and dragged it toward him through the sand beside his body. Shifting his grip to the blade, he pulled it across his chest, then nudged Herc's arm with the hilt. "I'm not willing…to quit yet," he muttered. "Do it…or I'll do it myself…and you can just lie there…and watch my life bleed away. If we're going to die anyway…I might as well take the fast way out."

Hercules turned his head away, the misery of it all on his face. 'His blood will flow.' 'Oh gods,' he thought, 'how can I do this?' How could he bring himself to…? They'd die. They'd both die if he didn't take this last desperate gamble…do this disgusting, sickening thing. They'd die if he didn't.

Yet, still he hesitated…until he felt the weapon pull away from where it touched his shoulder, and Iolaus muttered with grim determination, "Fine…if that's the way you want it."

Wordlessly, he shifted, his arm coming across his body, his hand closing over the hilt of the knife, stopping his friend from wrestling it one-handed around toward his throat. He didn't know if Iolaus meant it or not, but knowing his stubborn friend, he wasn't about to push it that far. Gods…sand shifted and slipped to the ground as he forced himself up onto one elbow and rolled to look down at Iolaus, his face haunted.

"Don't think about it," Iolaus sighed, turning his right arm to give Hercules better access to his wrist, bending it up toward the demigod. "Just do it."

Slowly, Hercules lifted the knife, then paused again, having to take a deep breath, struggling to swallow against the dryness but there was no moisture left in his mouth. He gripped Iolaus' arm with one hand, then swiftly drew the razor-sharp blade across his friend's wrist, bending quickly to cover the wound with his mouth.

Forcing himself not to gag, not to choke on the metallic, salty liquid that pulsed so hard and fast, he swallowed, until he couldn't stand it anymore. With a groan, fighting the sudden, inevitable nausea, he slid his hand up to cover the wound, applying pressure as hard as he dared, to stop the flow of the life-giving liquid and clot the small cut he'd made, letting the knife fall between them in the sand. He'd have wept if he'd had the moisture left in his body to cry.

The knife they'd forged together. The knife that over the years, in one perilous situation after another, had come to represent the friendship, the partnership, that existed between them.

And, now, it had become the instrument whereby Iolaus shared enough of his life to keep Hercules going.

It hadn't been much…but for someone with a demigod's awesome resilience, it was enough. Hercules pulled some of the linen strips from around Iolaus' ribs, and tightly bandaged his wrist. Iolaus had watched silently, his face impassive but his eyes revealed that he knew very well what this revolting act had cost his best friend. When Hercules had finished tending to the wound, and finally found the strength to look into his friend's eyes, Iolaus winked as he murmured, "Guess now…we really are…blood brothers."

There was an unreadable look in Hercules' eyes, as he touched Iolaus' wan cheek and whispered back, "Yeah, I guess we are." He shifted onto his knees, and slipped the knife back into Iolaus' boot. Then, almost hating the renewed surge of strength he felt, he gathered Iolaus to him, lifting him as he stood, and turned to continue their trek across the wasteland.

Haunted…he was haunted by what he'd done.

Haunted by having been the one to fulfill the curse. 'His blood will flow.' Gods….

* * *

The renewed sense of strength was fragile and swiftly fleeting, but it kept him on his feet. Head down as he stumbled along, determined now not to stop until either they reached water or he died in his tracks, Hercules didn't see the dark slender forms of palms rising over the horizon in front of them. Didn't immediately register it when his boots hit the patches of rough, hardy desert grass.

But, he smelled it.

Water.

Dazed, hardly daring to hope, he lifted his head then, and saw the trees just a few paces ahead…and beyond them, the shimmer of reflected starlight. Swallowing, he croaked with soul-deep relief, "Water."

Staggering forward, too aware of how limp Iolaus was in his arms, he moved past the trees and walked straight into the small, shallow lake, groaning at the touch of cool, limpid water. Dropping to his knees, he laid Iolaus into its richness, and one arm supporting his friend's shoulders, he cupped water in his other hand, and let it flow over his buddy's face, into his slack mouth.

Iolaus coughed, and spluttered, jerking weakly at the shock as it slammed him back to consciousness. "Water!" he gasped.

"Yeah," Hercules grinned wildly. "Water!"

Giggling weakly in hysterical relief, Iolaus rolled out of Hercules' grip, onto his knees in the blessed water, bending his face to gulp it in, while Hercules lifted palmful after palmful into his own mouth. Both of them fought the desire to wallow in it, to drink their fill, knowing too much would only sicken them. But, the wondrous bounty of the simple cool water restored them…restored strength…restored hope.

They dragged themselves back to the shore and collapsed upon it. They'd made it.

* * *

It was an oasis, populated by a small band of black-garbed desert people who were astonished to find the two strangers sleeping on the shore of their small lake. The sound of their startled voices woke the two heroes, and they pulled themselves up to stare at the people, at the water, and at one another, wondering at first if they were dreaming…and then grinning, finally laughing, in the sheer delight of being alive.

Though the language was foreign, with pictures drawn in the sand and gestures, they finally were able to find out they were less than a day's walk from the small port town where they would find their ship. Still weak from their ordeal, they rested a day, drinking their fill and thoroughly enjoying the roasted goat, succulent dates and sour milk the generous desert people shared with them, before starting out again across the desert sands to the northwest. This time, they were armed with waterskins.

Both Hercules and Iolaus were amazed at how quickly the hunter had regained his strength. He was once again able to march along side his partner, no longer needing to be carried. Relieved, Hercules ambled with one arm looped lightly around his buddy's shoulders.

As they walked, Iolaus mused on how much better he felt…stronger. Oh, his arm and ribs still ached, but the terrible weakness, the feeling that life was draining from his body, that he'd felt for most of their journey was gone…and he realized it had been gone for a while. He just hadn't noticed, having been so naturally debilitated by the dehydration and the ravages of the sun.

Frowning, he thought back to those last hazy memories he had of the final terrible march to the oasis, trying to pin down when the change had occurred.

And, then, it came to him. The sense of relief he'd felt…almost a surge of strength as if something had lifted away, something that had been bearing him down. He'd believed, throughout their journey, that his odd weakness and lack of stamina had been caused by the curse Hercules had told him about. That it was killing him…and he'd felt it lift, the moment it had dissipated. But, it didn't make sense. Looking up at his friend, he asked, "Hercules…you know that dung beetle curse…did you hear anything else about it, I mean, anything more than just that I'd gotten myself cursed by stepping on the damn thing?"

Hercules stiffened, and his arm fell from Iolaus' shoulders, his head turned away, as his steps slowed.

"What?" demanded Iolaus, turning to face him. "What didn't you tell me?"

Hercules sighed and looked back at his friend. It was over now…they'd gotten to water in time. Iolaus was fine. His blood had flowed and he'd survived. Quietly, he shared now what he'd hadn't been able to bring himself to tell Iolaus before. "The emissary…he was the one who told me. He said the curse of the dung beetle meant that the balance between Egypt and Greece had been restored…had wiped out the impact of your victory." Looking away, the demigod sighed, feeling the weight of guilt and horror as he recalled how he'd been the one to fulfill it, as he continued, "He told me the curse meant that your blood would flow." His voice thick with disgust, he concluded the retelling of the curse, "so 'that it might be drunk by the gods', before you'd see Greece again."

Iolaus stared at Hercules, dumbfounded…and then he started to laugh so hard he could hardly stand and had to reach out one hand to grab onto Hercules to keep his balance.

Bewildered by his friend's reaction, Hercules stared back, consternation written on his face as he demanded, "What?"

But, it was a few minutes before Iolaus could stifle his mirth enough to speak. All that time…all that time, he'd been worried about Herc's mortal half…when it was the god half that would save them, and not just because his buddy had the strength of a hundred men. Finally, leaning against his friend for support, so that he wouldn't collapse in his almost hysterical reaction to what he found outrageously funny, he tapped Herc's chest with his finger as he gasped to explain, "You…you…"

"What?" Hercules demanded, smiling uncertainly at his buddy's state of mirth.

"The 'god'," Iolaus giggled. "The god who drank my blood!" Once more, the hilarity of it all, the craziness, captured him and he peeled with laughter.

"Me? What…" and then Hercules understood. In that one precious, priceless moment, the horror of what he'd been compelled by desperation to do dropped away. And the outrageous ridiculousness of it all captured him too. Shaking his head, he chuckled and then he was laughing as well, unable to resist Iolaus' delight in the incomprehensible whimsy of the Fates.

A strange land. A foreign curse. Fulfilled by the divine half of the Son of Zeus. Finally, he spluttered, "But I'm not a god!"

"Close enough," Iolaus gasped. "Worked for me…I felt better, Herc, as soon as you did it!" And, then he was laughing again, this time with relief and gratitude…that his buddy had been able to force himself to do what neither of them had known was the single thing that would save them both. Not just from the desert but from the curse of the dung beetle that would have killed Iolaus had it not been fulfilled, had a god not found his blood worthy of being consumed.

Grinning, Hercules chuckled as he again looped an arm around Iolaus' shoulder, drawing him close as he said, "C'mon, blood brother, our ship awaits. It's time for 'Greece' to go home."

Finis


End file.
